


land of the living

by ceraunos



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, Healing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, monchevy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 03:58:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18563449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceraunos/pseuds/ceraunos
Summary: ‘I should hate you,’ Philippe whispers.‘Hate me, then,’ Chevalier replies, but it sounds as if he is actually sayinglove me, then.~The beginning of it all.(mild non-con, not between monchevy)





	land of the living

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Italiano available: [land of the living](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18838060) by [SanaW](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanaW/pseuds/SanaW)



> Warning for mild non-con mentioned, and abusive/violent actions between Philippe and another character - who he is in a relationship with at the time. 
> 
> It is possible to skip the first half if you want to avoid this, the second is /much/ happier & fluffy (lots of monchevy love I promise).

_The stranger smiles with a flash of something brilliant and Philippe, without knowing it, is caught._

Three weeks before Philippe’s eighteenth birthday, on an afternoon full of the threat of late summer rain, he meets Chevalier; just another new face sulking at the back of the room while Mancini laughs coldly at Philippe’s expense. Except, for a moment, Philippe doesn’t hear the taunt, isn’t aware of anything, except for the way that this new stranger is watching him with almost predatory eyes. Mancini twists Philippe’s jaw between his fingers, dragging his attention away, and when Philippe looks back the boy is gone.

That night, and the next, Philippe dreams of blond curls and hungry eyes, and wakes to find the sheets sticky with his own release.

Time passes, a blur of days that turn into weeks which turn into two months and Philippe doesn’t see him again. He’s half certain he imagined him entirely, except that with each mistaken glimpse blond curls and long lace cuffs, his stomach tangles in a hope that refuses to let him leave the memory alone.

~

Philippe is tucked away behind a heavy curtain, watching the afternoon turn to evening while he hides from Bontemps, and trying not to feel like a child for it. There is nothing he wants to do less, though, than discuss his brother’s wedding again.

Giggling echoes into the room and Philippe grits his teeth against the shattering of silence. As abruptly as it starts the giggling stops, and Philippe almost relaxes when the sound morphs instead. Philippe’s breath stills at the sound of a sudden, shocked gasp, unmistakably needy with desire. He contemplates announcing himself, except then someone moans, soft and rich, and Philippe’s voice catches at his throat, his stomach suddenly tight.

‘I want -’ someone whispers, half spoken words tumbling from the other side of the curtain.

‘God, yes, hurry.’

Philippe hardly hears them through the roaring of blood in his ears and the muffle of lips speaking into skin. Through it all, though, he instantly realises he recognises one of them intimately.

‘I’m going to fuck you like this. You’d like that, wouldn’t you,’ Mancini says, and Philippe’s stomach curdles at the words he’s heard dozens of times before. A distant part of him wonders if it’s always sounded so cruel.

There’s a gasp, a broken inhale that Philippe somehow feels deep in his own bones.

‘Fuck, ah.’

It absolutely shouldn’t be a surprise that Mancini is fucking another man without Philippe. They’ve been treading a tired line the last few weeks; Philippe is restless and distracted, while Mancini increasingly seems as if he never particularly cared to begin with. It isn’t a surprise that he’s fucking someone else, and yet it still stings.

He tries to tune out the sounds of flesh against flesh, a slap, a cry, a moan; focuses instead on the ashen grey of the setting sky and refuses to think about the tightness of his breeches, the toe curling way silk brushes over skin with heightened sensitivity.

The one who isn’t Mancini cries out again, and Philippe can hear the desperate edge in it; he’s all too familiar with the way Mancini gives almost, but not quite, enough. It’s the unfamiliar small breathy groans from Mancini though, that Philippe can’t stand. He’s going to, clear his throat, shift the curtain, anything at all, when the curtain is tugged open a crack of a different accord. There’s an elbow, suddenly, half an inch from Philippe’s cheek as bodies crash against the wall.

A swallowed moan rings through the room and Philippe can’t move, frozen by the flash of blond hair through the gap in the curtain. It _can’t_ be him, Philippe tries to tell himself, except then the hair falls away and the same look that has haunted Philippe’s nights, is staring straight at him. Philippe bites down on his lip to stifle the moan that builds through him and hopes he imagines the stranger smiling at him.

The blond comes with a shout, spilling into his own hand, and, unbidden, Philippe’s eyes snap shut, his own stomach tightening against the edge of release. He breaths slowly through his nose and by the time the arousal swimming in his head subsides a little, Mancini is groaning and the moment is lost. Philippe falls back to biting reality, aching and breathless.

They don’t linger afterwards, leaving Philippe alone an odd cocktail of elation and betrayal already beginning to fester like a bitter sickness. Bontemps finds him an hour later, still tucked away, and doesn’t say a word about the way Philippe seems to shake when he stands. When Louis mutters that he’s looking unwell there’s a horrible moment in which Philippe wants to tell him everything, like they used to do as children. He shakes his head and doesn’t hear another word Louis says that evening.

~

Philippe sulks. It’s something he’s good at, even enjoys a little, in a twisted kind of way. The days get shorter, clouding over with the first touches of winter weather, and Paris sinks into early darkness. Philippe’s temper gets shorter, too; quick flickers of fury sparking out of everything from the cut of his coats to a servant’s hesitant shuffling. as if his skin doesn’t fit anymore, an indistinguishable wrongness, and in the same way that the leaves outside are beginning to rot, something inside him seems to be dying. It comes to a head the day he throws a wine glass at Mancini.

Nothing has changed between them. Mancini barely seems to have noticed Philippe’s mood, and Philippe has no desire to discuss it. He doesn’t know what he would say; how can he explain why he stayed silent the whole time? Anyway, it isn’t like they haven’t both had others before, so why does it somehow feel different - more serious - this time?

They’re naked and drunk in a room full of naked and drunk people. Mancini sways, a hand splaying flat against some pretty nobody’s chest and Philippe watches as the boy’s lips part. Mancini leans in, twirling loose blond hair around his fingers. The deep port red stain splashes over the wall like a wound exploding. The glass doesn’t shatter, so much as rains down around them.

‘You little shit!’ Mancini grabs Philippe’s wrist, twisting, and Philippe can smell the night’s drinking on his breath, hot and stale at his skin. His hand doesn’t feel like his own, weightless and unexpectedly empty. There’s a small dribble of blood at Mancini’s hairline. Philippe touches it, and Mancini hisses, nails biting into Philippe’s wrist as he grips impossibly harder.

‘Fuck you,’ he spits, dropping Philippe.

Philippe is vaguely aware of the shocked stillness of the room, somewhere beyond the cold numbness flooding through him. His knees hold out just long enough to make it to the other side of the door, collapsing against the corridor wall.

‘Hello,’ a voice says and Philippe blinks. ‘I seem to be overdressed.’

It takes Philippe a long moment to realise the voice is coming from the darkness further down the corridor.

‘Oh don’t,’ the voice says, when Philippe goes to cover himself, suddenly cold against the night air, ‘I was enjoying the view.’

Philippe, despite himself, feels the corners of his mouth stretch into the beginnings of a smile.

‘I was looking for the party, but I seem to have found something much better.’

Philippe tries to respond except he’s struck dumb, a thousand quick remarks loosing themselves on his tongue, because the voice has finally stepped out of the dark and it’s _him._

‘Hello,’ is all Philippe manages to breath out.

‘Hello,’ he echoes.

There’s a hanging moment of anticipatory stillness that splits wide open in the same instant the door behind them does.

‘Philippe!’ Mancini strides out with the air of a storm already breaking, thunderous and purple with fury. ‘Philippe!’

Philippe opens his mouth, steeling himself with every drop of indifference he can manage.

‘Yes?’ The word is stolen from Philippe’s tongue, sounding instead from his left. Philippe stares.

‘Oh, not me. Disappointing,’ the stranger – also Philippe? – says.

Mancini, for the briefest of flickering looks, seems confused. Then his gaze fixes on Philippe.

‘Come back inside.’

Philippe shakes his head, churlishly. Mancini reaches out, fingers brushing over Philippe’s cheek.

‘You’re spoiling the night.’

‘No.’

Mancini steps close, crowding Philippe, pressing his fingers to Philippe’s jaw so hard Philippe imagines little indents sinking into bone.

‘What’s wrong with you tonight? You’re acting like a little child.’ Mancini takes Philippe’s hand, tugs at it, pulling him towards the door. Philippe feels his feet want to follow instinctively and something snaps, like a bough finally succumbing a constant wind.

‘You fucked him.’ Philippe pulls, twisting until he can use his body weight to force Mancini down, tumbling on top of him. ‘You fucked him,’ he spits again, this time sparing a look in the other Philippe’s direction.

The blond holds his hands up in a surrender, taking a step backwards. Philippe doesn’t have time to think about it, though, because Mancini rolls them, an elbow coming down into Philippe’s shoulder with a sickening crack. Philippe shouts in pain.

‘And?’ Mancini says into Philippe’s ear, sending something warm and uncomfortable crawling down Philippe’s spine. ‘You’ve never worried about it before.’

Philippe doesn’t know what to say to that, because it’s true, he hasn’t.

‘I was there. I saw you.’ Philippe uses Mancini’s pause to flip them, scrambling out from under him until they’re kneeling, panting, opposite each other. There’s a violence itching in Philippe’s palms, getting under his nails.

Mancini stands first, brushing dirt from his skin.

‘Why didn’t you join us?’ he says, as if this is a suitable dismissal to the whole topic, ‘You could have done.’

Philippe snarls, stumbling to his feet, except Mancini is already gone, disappearing back inside the party, and there are arms wrapping around Philippe’s waist as he sways, suddenly unsteady. The bitter metal of blood stings at his lip and his head throbs with a dull echo.

‘Here.’ The stranger – Philippe – holds out his coat, wrapping it around Philippe’s shoulders when he doesn’t move. ‘I think perhaps it’s time for bed.’

Philippe lets himself be led, trance like, through twists of corridors, unthinking beyond the images that swim through his mind, replaying the night. He doesn’t notice, even, when they turn left instead of right at the place that would usually lead to his rooms.

The bed is warm and welcoming and Philippe’s eyes close on instinct, although one feels so swollen he’s not sure he could open it if he wanted to. A hand rests briefly on his forehead, dragging him back to half conscious. He stares up at the stranger with sleep blurred vision.

‘I thought I imagined you,’ he whispers, not sure if his lips are actually moving or if he’s already dreaming.

‘Real as the body of Christ,’ the other Philippe says, spreading his palms in front of him.

Philippe doesn’t even think before he presses his thumbs to the hollow of the offered hands. He drifts back to sleep blanketed by a thick stillness, pregnant with an expectancy he can’t explain.

~

There is too much light and far too few blankets when Philippe wakes for this to be his bed, and yet at first he can’t understand where else he would be. The bruises filter in slowly, a creeping aching that covers his skin and sinks through his bones. Regret comes like a flood, pain dragging memory behind it; he presses his face to the pillow and groans, as if a single noise could cancel out the mess he’s going to have to face.

Someone coughs.

‘You’re alive, then.’

Philippe doesn’t move, just hums into the pillow.

‘There’s breakfast at the table, or wine, if that’s more your thing.’

A faint sweetness drifts over on a breeze and Philippe’s stomach twists, finally giving up it’s war with last night’s wine. From the corner of his eye he sees the blond grimace across the room. Vomiting into a chamber pot is rarely dignified, but it’s even less so when you’re hanging off a beautiful stranger’s bed, Philippe contemplates.

‘Delicious,’ he mutters, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and closing his eyes again, deciding the whole nonsense of the morning after can wait a while longer.

It’s late afternoon before Philippe creeps out of bed. The curtains have been drawn again but a cool air blows from the window, raising ticklish goose bumps along his skin. He nibbles tentatively on a pastry, thankful when his stomach doesn’t object. The blond is nowhere in sight but clothes – Philippe’s own – have been brought in and he can hear voices on the other side of the door. They stop the moment he walks in.

‘Hello,’ he says. The blond looks up from where he’s lounging against Mancini. A piece of pastry catches in Philippe’s throat.

‘Philippe, the Chevalier de Loraine,’ Mancini says. ‘I believe you haven’t met properly yet.’

‘I don’t usually let people in my bed before they know my name, you know,’ the Chevalier says, and Mancini scoffs.

‘Liar, you had your mouth on my cock before there was time for a name to come out of it, as I recall.’

The Chevalier rolls his eyes and a wave of exhaustion hits Philippe, the last of his anger draining away into disorientated nothingness.

‘Right,’ he says ‘well. I’m going to have a bath.’

‘I’ll see you later,’ Mancini says as Philippe leaves and his voice glints with sharpness as hard as silver, the undertone Philippe has been waiting for. He presses the heal of his palm to his eyes, fighting against a headache that builds with heavy pressure like the breaking of of a long heat.

~

Winter rolls in and takes set in frigid winds that rattle at windowpanes and howl through the corridors. Change hangs like empty space, drunk on full of half formed possibilities, around them. The Chevalier suddenly seems to be wherever Philippe goes, often in the company of Mancini; it’s infuriating and inevitable and Philippe doesn’t know how to stop it, doesn’t know whether he wants to.

Philippe ignores him, keeps mainly to the company of thick blankets, books and boys whose names he never learns, instead. It works, up until the Chevalier catches his eye over dinner, smiles across a room, shares an amused scowl behind the King’s back, and Philippe’s resolve tumbles.

He hates him and wants him in the same breath, desperately. They don’t talk, particularly, but Philippe knows he’s being obvious with his attention, doesn’t care enough to hide it. The Chevalier becomes something of an icon within Philippe’s court, always at the centre of a crowd, surrounded by inane and beautiful people. Yet whenever Philippe looks, the Chevalier looks right back, watching.

Anything that might be growing between them, though, is in vain; stifled in cloying fog that is Mancini. Just as the Chevalier’s presence grows, the widening gap between Mancini and Philippe doesn’t go unnoticed; it a slow rip, like a tear in fabric that grows with every wear. What Philippe used to find attractive feels infuriating, endearing becomes irritating, and arousing is intolerable.

Philippe takes to locking his door at night for the principle of the action, knowing that Mancini will still bribe the guards to let him in anyway. Sex feels like it belongs to someone else’s body and when Mancini touches him Philippe can’t help but stifle a shuddering flinch. When he closes his eyes it is always the Chevalier kissing him instead.

Mancini flits between being entirely bored with the Chevalier’s existence, to forbidding any mention of him, to flirting shamelessly with him. The first time Philippe dances with the Chevalier, an impromptu movement of bodies that sends him swirling magnificently into arms that feel new and familiar all at once, Mancini watches from the edge of the room.

‘I should hate you,’ Philippe whispers as the Chevalier turns them, weaving between the scenes of debauchery surrounding them.

‘Hate me, then,’ Chevalier replies, but it sounds as if he is really saying _love me, then._

‘Perhaps I will.’

Afterwards, Mancini brings stinging crimson to Philippe’s cheek with the palm of his hand. It doesn’t fade and when Mancini fucks him it is so hard and visceral that it vibrates through him with a horrible sickness the next morning. Philippe barricades his door that night and lies awake until the first trickle of frost tipped morning appears.

Mancini fights in every way he knows how; turns praise to bitter words and pulls Philippe so close he doesn’t know how to exist beyond him and then leaves him to flounder in his wake. He rails against the Chevalier, then flatters him so sweetly it is as if the two are ancient lovers and it’s enough to make Philippe want to hate them both. Except in it all Mancini’s pallid desperation is seeping through and Philippe still holds the greater sword; he is after all the King’s brother.

It doesn’t take long, once Philippe lets him go, for Mancini to fall.

~

It rains constantly for weeks, a dull downpour that floods the streets of Paris and sends swarms of vermin crawling into the light. Philippe feels Louis grow restless with the unease that sweeps through the court, a vague sense that anything might happen. The feeling, though, could also be attributed to Philippe’s new-found freedom.

There are bodies, keen and beautiful, whenever he looks, no longer subject to shadows by Mancini. He gets drunk for three days and fucks almost all of them. Afterwards he ignores the slight hollowness that echoes through his chest. Once he thinks he sees the Chevalier watching from the edge of the room, but when he looks back there is nothing but empty glasses and burnt out candles. When he looks for him the next day it is as if he has vanished entirely.

Louis orders that they will go south the same day that the first blossoms forget to bloom amongst the wetness. For the first time Philippe is apathetic to his brother’s plans. Normally he would flight bitterly to stay, hardly thrilled by the idea of joining the King’s council only to be excluded from any meaningful discussion. Yet he considers Saint Cloud, the sprawling isolation of it and of moving his new circle there and feels lonelier for the idea of it. So instead he lets himself be moved by the tides of packing and activity and only wishes he could find the green eyes he still feels watching him.

The day before they leave he’s lounging in an empty cards room when someone presses their hand to his neck, scooping hair away to whisper in his ear.

‘So,’ they mummer, and Philippe twists to bat them away, not particularly interested in whatever sex they’re offering. Instead he finds the Chevalier, leaning so close his hair tickles against Philippe’s cheek. Philippe blinks.

‘Where have you been?’ Philippe says. He doesn’t mean for it to sound accusatory and yet it does anyway.

‘Here and there.’ The Chevalier shrugs.

Philippe suddenly has to bite his tongue on the urge to say _I missed you._

‘So,’ Chevalier says again, when Philippe stays silent. ‘You’re leaving?’

Philippe shrugs. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘You could say no.’

‘You’ve clearly never tried to argue with my brother,’ Philippe says and an unexpected smile creeps across his face. ‘Anyway, why would I stay?’

The Chevalier doesn’t say anything, just comes to stand in front of Philippe and smiles back. A finger catches a loose wave of Philippe’s hair.

‘There’s a lot of things you can’t do in a letter,’ he says, a Philippe’s breath catches. Chevalier nudges his knee. Philippe glances down then back again, searching for a sign that he’s misreading intentions.

‘I suppose not,’ he says, sitting up a little into the Chevalier’s space at the same time that the Chevalier steps forward.

There’s a moment that hangs in the air between them, like dust caught in the light, and then Chevalier kisses him; a brief brush of lips that barely ends before it begins again, this time soft and needy. Behind them someone enters and leaves again but Philippe barely notices, too focused instead on the feel of Chevalier’s fingers flitting at the edges of his jaw and the warm huffs of breath between kisses.

‘Come with me,’ Philippe whispers without thinking what he really means, when they pull apart.

‘With pleasure,’ Chevalier says, brushing his thumb over a veil of spit on Philippe’s lip. Philippe touches the tip of his tongue to Chevalier’s finger and the Chevalier presses into it. Philippe stifles an anticipatory moan, turning it to low hum instead.

The Chevalier steps away, waiting by the door before Philippe recovers himself enough to stand.

‘You’ll have to lead the way,’ he says and Philippe grimaces.

‘We might not be particularly alone in my rooms,’ he says, wishing he had the sense to shoo the handful of still sleeping bodies away earlier. He watches some indeterminable expression flash across Chevalier’s features before he coughs lightly and rights himself.

‘Ah, another time then perhaps.’

‘Still,’ Philippe say, plucking at a button on the Chevalier’s coat.

‘Still.’

The Chevalier stills Philippe’s hand, holding it under his own and whatever tightness had suddenly formed between them dissipates. They’re so close Philippe can almost feel the rise and fall of Chevalier’s chest. He doesn’t look away to lock the door.

The Chevalier’s hand finds the button on Philippe’s breaches first and, when Philippe glances down, Chevalier tips his chin up again and kisses him so gently and so long that Philippe forgets to breath and comes away dizzy. Philippe gasps, dragging in air to stop his spinning head except Chevalier trails his fingers under Philippe’s shirt and his gasp morphs into something edged with want, instead. The Chevalier laughs, brushing over a nipple and electing a small shudder from Philippe.

‘Oh?’ Chevalier says, raising an eyebrow and tracing the same spot again, this time more deliberately.

Philippe doesn’t say anything, only scrambles at the Chevalier’s jacket and backs them up against the wall, legs tangling until they half fall against it. When Chevalier parts them enough to tug Philippe’s shirt over his head, Philippe has to swallow an unexpected whine. He’s rewarded though, by the feel of Chevalier’s silk shirt against skin, and then just skin against skin, pale, although flushed pink, and deliciously untouched.

Philippe hums a low groan into Chevalier’s neck when Chevalier tilts them just a little to press against him, their cocks touching except through thin fabric that shifts and grazes torturously. When Philippe dips his fingers below the waistband of Chevalier’s breaches and finds the first curls of hair, Chevalier jolts, twisting a nails scraping on Philippe’s arm.

‘God, please,’ he urges.

Philippe smiles, and lets his fingers linger just a moment longer, threading through the coarse curls, before he stretches out and runs along the length of Chevalier, working blind to touch lightly at the tip. Chevalier sighs, and leans forward into Philippe’s touch, forehead falling against his own. Philippe catches his mouth against his, open and wanting, twisting buttons undone, suddenly frantic. Chevalier’s touch races over Philippe’s skin, leaving fire in its wake as he touches everywhere and nowhere at once.

Fabric pools on the floor and Philippe moans as their cocks touch, warm against each other where Philippe’s own breaches gape open, barely hanging on around his hips. They stay like that for a moment, small movements sending jolts of pleasure coursing through Philippe as they linger in the new closeness, hips stuttering like they are young boys, inexperienced and raw again. Then Chevalier reaches down and takes them both in hand, sweat and the first beads of pre-come mixing as he strokes, twisting just enough and it is all Philippe can do not to shout.

He feels lips press against his neck, teeth scraping lightly and yet just enough to bring blood to the flood under his skin, pleasant in a way he hadn’t known it could be; the first pricks of pain like too much wine on an empty stomach. Chevalier’s tongue flicks over the point and it sends fireworks rocketing through the sensitivity at the same time Chevalier circles a finger around the head of his cock, the edge of a nail catching at his tip. Philippe feels the sting of tears press to the corner of his eyes and his knees buckle, suddenly standing supported only by the Chevalier’s arm around his waist.

He can hear wordless pleading and realises the sounds are falling from his own lips, broken and desperate. When he wraps his own hand around Chevalier’s, interlacing their fingers without breaking the pace, Chevalier’s own cries drift around them, his head falling back against the wall.

‘Ah, don’t stop,’ he gasps.

‘I – oh – wouldn’t dream of it.’

Philippe tangles his spare hand into Chevalier’s hair, tugging at the base of his neck, and Chevalier yelps, his hips jolting up. Philippe can feel the familiar warmth pooling in low in his stomach, tingling and tight under his skin, pulling in only one direction. He finds Chevalier’s mouth, tongue flicking out for a messy half kiss, interrupted by loose moans drifting between them.

Then Chevalier twists his wrist unexpectedly and Philippe comes suddenly, arousal flooding through him and sending his mind hazy with pleasure. Chevalier doesn’t stop his movements, keeps them both in hand, even as Philippe’s grip loosens. It’s almost too much and he squirms without really wanting to leave but before he can say anything Chevalier buckles forward into him and comes across both their hands with a shout.

They stay like that, half collapsed against the wall, panting for a long minute. Chevalier laughs, soft and private, and it sounds like a warm breeze, even as Philippe shivers, sticky and cool with drying sweat.

‘Come with me,’ he says again.

‘I think I just did,’ Chevalier smirks and Philippe shakes his head with an irritation that feels more like amusement.

‘Come south with me.’

‘Alright,’ Chevalier says and closes his eyes, resting against Philippe’s shoulder.

With one easy word, something solid settles in Philippe’s chest, anxious and hopeful all at once.

‘Alright,’ Chevalier says again, and it sounds like a beginning.

~

**_Epilogue:_ **

They chase glinting sun through countryside after countryside, racing along roads that turn from wet stone to cracking mud and forest floor. Chevalier watches the figures of Philippe and Louis disappearing along the horizon, caught in a seemingly endless race, and only half wishes he was still huddled inside the carriage, rather than having been persuaded to ride for the afternoon by Philippe’s gentle pleading. Then Philippe turns his head back, hair whipping around him in the wind and waves Chevalier on and Chevalier imagines he can see the bright, gentle smile that he’s learning exists only for him.

They arrive at the Château after dark the next day, bones tight with having been thrown along half formed tracks and tired beyond the desire for supper. Chevalier collapses into Philippe’s bed before anyone has a chance to show him where his might be, not that he intends to see much of it anyway. He’s vaguely aware, not long after, of Philippe’s arm wrapping around him, lips brushing at the base of his neck.

Philippe is gone from the bed the next morning, but Chevalier hardly has to move to find him leaning out of an open window, bathed in mid-morning sun. He holds out a glass of wine to Chevalier, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Chevalier leans in to kiss him and misses entirely when Philippe moves, tugging at Chevalier’s hair painfully. Philippe holds out a twig to him, one blond hair still caught on it.

‘I hate the outdoors.’

‘You didn’t have to ride _into_ that bush,’ Philippe teases.

‘ _I_ didn’t decide to.’

Before Chevalier can complain again about his horse’s enthusiasm for berries, Philippe kisses him, and this time it doesn’t miss.

~

They pass hours lounging in the warmth of early summer, which is already arriving this far south, tangled around each other, wine never far away. Between them they plan lavish parties, far too elaborate for the reduced court held here but perfect for their return to Paris, and laugh at the harried expressions of those hurrying to and from the King’s quarters. Chevalier doesn’t miss the slight look of longing in Philippe’s eyes, though, whenever the King’s council is mentioned, and wonders how a little more power might fall their way in future. The thought doesn’t last long, though, driven away by the distraction of Philippe’s wandering fingers and restless lips.

They almost miss dinner, but the disapproving scowl he’s growing used to barely flickers his way the entire meal and Chevalier suspects Philippe must have spoken to Louis at some point. There’s something warm and reassuring about that thought.

~

Chevalier’s head swirls, cloudy with wine and arousal making every touch thrum with hypersensitivity.

‘Please,’ Philippe gasps underneath him, tangling his fingers through Chevalier’s hair.

Chevalier crooks a finger, trailing it along Philippe’s chest, leaving a shimmer of golden oil in his wake. The candle flickers next to them, casting the room into long shadows of rich crimson. Philippe writhes. Chevalier places a calming kiss to his temple, smoothing hair away from the beads of sweat forming at Philippe’s hairline.

‘Soon, soon,’ Chevalier reassures, ‘I promise.’

He wanders his hand a little lower, tracing at the skin on the inside of Philippe’s thighs and feeling arousal pool in his stomach and the shivering shudders it draws from Philippe. Philippe twists his hips, searching for contact and Chevalier finally gives in, drawing long lines over the length of Philippe before taking the tip of him in his mouth and flicking his tongue just once. The soft sighs tumbling from Philippe turn to a needy cry, and Chevalier does it again. Philippe bucks up against him and Chevalier pulls away, a hand steadying Philippe’s hips.

‘Ah, ah,’ he warns.

Philippe presses his head back against the pillow with a groan. Chevalier tilts his jaw with gentle fingers, searching for a soft, pliant kiss. Chevalier pours every ounce of care into it, hoping Philippe will understand that he is asking _trust me,_ and is rewarded when Philippe goes malleable in his arms.

‘Sit up for me,’ he murmurs, and Philippe shifts against him, tucking himself up against the headboard. Chevalier lifts his knees, laughing at the jolt Philippe gives when he touches the underside of his knees.

‘Tickles,’ Philippe mutters, and Chevalier ducks to press a kiss against the spot until Philippe, too, is laughing.

Chevalier presses his forehead against the crease of Philippe’s hips and bites, just a little, at the soft skin he finds there. Philippe’s laughter fades into a moan instead.

‘Hurry _up_ ,’ Philippe says, and Chevalier tsks, but sits up again nonetheless, rearranging them until Philippe is half in his lap.

He finds the bottle of oil, abandoned beside them and leaking onto the sheets, and pours a healthy amount onto his fingers, letting it drip down between them. Philippe gasps in anticipation as Chevalier traces around his hole, pressing the tip of his finger to him.

Philippe shivers the whole time Chevalier prepares him, legs shaking around his waist and Chevalier finds himself pausing to lace his free hand with Philippe’s, squeezing.

‘I’m not a virgin,’ Philippe says, half way through, ‘I don’t know why -’

‘I know,’ Chevalier says. ‘Me too.’

Philippe glances down between them to where Chevalier is achingly hard, red and leaking on himself, and then glances back up, eyes wide. He smiles, a half twitch at the edge of his lips that Chevalier thinks it makes him seem impossibly nervous. Then he touches, a hand wrapping around Chevalier tight but not quite enough, and Chevalier realises it wasn’t nerves, but devilish, playful anticipation. Chevalier throws his head back and groans, involuntarily twisting his fingers inside Philippe, who shouts, arching off the bed entirely.

Any thoughts of long teasing touches fly from Chevalier’s mind, suddenly desperate with burning need. He scissors his fingers experimentally, testing how open Philippe is, and Philippe pushes back against him.

‘I’m ready, I’m ready. Now.’

Chevalier kisses him, swift and deep, their tongues bruising against each other, as he coats himself in the last of the oil. He bites his lip at the feel of his and Philippe’s fingers brushing against each other’s on his cock, takes a long steadying breath before lining himself up and pushing inside Philippe.

A broken, longing noise falls from Philippe’s lips as his hands scrabble at Chevalier’s hips to pull him deeper. Chevalier has barely adjusted to the hot, tight feeling of being inside him, before Philippe starts to move, hard and fast and Chevalier thinks it must surely sting with that specific burning pain.

‘Stop, stop,’ Philippe halts, pulling away and Chevalier puts a hand on his chest and another at his back, keeping him still. ‘Slow down, please?’

Philippe blinks at him, confusion written across his features.

‘I won’t last, if we keep going like that,’ Chevalier explains with a light smile.

‘Oh,’ Philippe breathes.

Chevalier pushes into him again, slow in a way that drags torturously even to him. Philippe writhes but doesn’t hurry him.

‘Better?’ Chevalier says, and Philippe nods.

They stay like that for a long moment, lingering in the sensuality of long touches and slow paced thrusts. Then Chevalier adjusts Philippe’s hips for a better angle and a litany of pleas spills from Philippe’s lips.

‘Please, please, more, oh, I need -’

Chevalier snaps his hips, breaking the pace and hitting the spot inside Philippe that makes him yelp, a drop of pre-come falling onto his stomach. Chevalier does it again.

‘More, please,’ Philippe begs, and Chevalier knows there are inaudible words spilling from himself too, a garble of moans and half formed thoughts.

It only takes a few more thrusts, speeding up again, until Philippe drops his head against Chevalier’s shoulder, gasping.

Chevalier wraps a hand around him, pulling once, twice, in time with his thrusts, and Philippe spills over them. Chevalier thinks he hears his own name in amongst Philippe’s cry and that alone is enough to tip him forward, arousal pulsing through him, tightening in his toes and curling at the base of his stomach.

He keeps moving, Philippe’s hand on his back keeping him there even though Chevalier can see oversensitivity written across his features. The Philippe kisses him, open mouthed and still wanting, and Chevalier comes with a low moan, pushing into Philippe one last time.

They stay like that, twisted around each other in quiet completion, until Chevalier feels his stickiness leaking out of Philippe and moves, pulling away slowly, to find a sheet to wipe them down with. Philippe turns, sleepy and pliant under his touch, as Chevalier curls up next to him, running a single finger over every line of Philippe’s body until tiredness catches up with him, long after Philippe’s eyes have already closed.

~

Chevalier wakes unusually early, morning light only just creeping in around the shutters, and finds Philippe staring at him, propped up on one elbow.

‘Hello,’ Philippe whispers, pressing a finger to the corner of Chevalier’s lips.

When his kisses him, it takes of sleep and yesterday’s wine and something more natural than that, and Chevalier finds himself, inexplicably, savouring it. He sits up, just enough to trace lightly at the edge of Philippe’s jaw.

‘Henceforth,’ he whispers, ‘every day that I do not touch you -’ he rubs a thumb over Philippe’s nipple, ‘taste you -’ he presses his lips against it, ‘feel you -’ Philippe pushes up against him, morning hardness undeniable through twisted sheets, ‘shall be a day of death and mourning.’

Philippe grins, bright like the beginning day, and kisses him full of teeth and tongue. Chevalier pulls him close and refuses to let go, even as Philippe battles with the sheets between them.

**Author's Note:**

> it's done! (title taken from the song 'land of the living' by roo panes which I've had on repeat while writing this)
> 
> come and scream with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ceraunos) and also on [tumblr](https://ceraunos.tumblr.com/) x


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